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A Market's Eve |
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On the eve of the approaching New Year, I found myself accompanying my
mother to the heart of the bustling central market. As we approached, the
all-too-familiar dilemma of securing a parking spot presented itself. For
nearly ten minutes, we waited in silent anticipation until, at last, a space
became free, and we slid in like weary travelers finding harbor.
Stepping into the market was anything but a festive delight. It seemed as
though the entire town had descended upon this single hub of commerce, each
soul driven by the need to gather their final provisions before the year's
end. The crowd swelled, prices rose steeply, and the simple task of
gathering our necessities became an exhausting battle against the throngs of
eager shoppers.
Through the maze of stalls and vendors, we wove our way, collecting the
essential fare—vegetables, meats, fish, noodles, and spices, each item
ticked off our list with a sense of duty. Prawns, coveted for the New Year
feast, had vanished entirely, snatched up despite their sky-high price,
leaving only a trace of disappointment in their wake.
With every step, the weight of our bulging bags increased, and the air,
thick with heat and chatter, pressed against us. The crowd, relentless and
ever-growing, made each movement a challenge, and the cacophony around us
became almost unbearable.
Overwhelmed by the oppressive atmosphere, I turned to my mother, telling her
I could endure no more, and that I would wait at the car as she completed
the last of our errands.
Dragging the bags behind me, I made my escape, finally reaching the
sanctuary of our vehicle. As I stood by the car, the cool evening air
wrapped around me, a balm to the chaos I had just escaped. I sighed deeply,
savoring the quiet reprieve.
After what felt like hours, my mother emerged, visibly drained by the
ordeal. Together, we loaded the groceries into the trunk, slid into our
seats, and drove away, the hum of the air conditioner offering blessed
relief from the frenzy we had left behind. |
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